


Cold as the Grave

by EvaBelmort



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-divergent from Yakimono, Oh look I wrote something morbid again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8313082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaBelmort/pseuds/EvaBelmort
Summary: Will fatally underestimates Hannibal. Hannibal finds that Will is not so easily disposed of as he might like.Starts during Yakimono, when Will turns up with a gun to continue his kitchen conversation with Hannibal, and then goes a bit sideways.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly late entry for day 17 of the [Hannictober prompt calendar](http://the-winnowing-wind.tumblr.com/post/150969260494/hannictober-2016-creative-calendar), 'Haunted House'.  
> 

Hannibal stayed carefully still as Will aimed the gun at him, hands held out unthreateningly. "Aren’t you curious, Will? Why you, why Miriam Lass? What does the Chesapeake Ripper want with you?"

Will’s breathing hitched, and he made a noise that was almost a laugh. It sounded like it hurt. "I know why. Miriam’s part of the game you’re playing with Jack. As to me..." He tilted his head to one side, voice almost a croon. "The Chesapeake Ripper is just like all the others, all those poor broken killers. He wants somebody to _see_ him. Don’t you, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal shifted closer, carefully, just out of arms’ reach now. "And do you? Can you see the Ripper, Will?"

Will’s eyes lost focus momentarily, then cleared. "I see someone who has been alone for such a long time, who had convinced himself that he was above needing... the company of lesser mortals. I think when he saw a chance for connection he surprised himself with how much he wanted it. But now the idea is in there, and you just can’t get it out, can you? You know you should have just killed me, you would have been safe then, but you can’t shake the thought that I’m _so close_ to being exactly what you want."

Hannibal swallowed. "And what is it that you think I want, Will?"

Will's mouth twitched into a wide, horrible smile. "What every narcissist wants: your reflection, of course. What could a thing like you love better than a mirror?"

Hannibal’s lips tightened, and he was moving before he’d really processed the bitter, sneering tone, one hand catching the gun and slipping a finger under the trigger so Will couldn’t shoot, the other hard against his chest as he slammed him back against the counter. Will choked, the wind knocked out of him by the impact, but he fought, free hand clawing at Hannibal’s wrist to get his gun free. They crashed to the floor together, and Hannibal twisted the gun out of Will’s grip and sent it sliding under the table out of reach, getting a knee in the kidneys for his trouble. Will tried to shove him away, to get distance, but Hannibal dragged him back again, dislocated his shoulder and got hold of the other wrist, pinned it under his knee and wrapped both hands around Will’s throat.

Will thrashed under him, eyes wild, but Hannibal was stronger and heavier, and there was no escaping him now. Abruptly Will went limp, staring up at him, looking him right in the eye as he snarled, "You’re only human. Sooner or later you’ll fuck up again, and I hope they take you alive, lock you up and throw away the key."

Hannibal tightened his grip, and Will yanked his working hand out from under Hannibal’s knee but all he did was to grip Hannibal’s wrist tightly, sinking blunt nails into his skin. Will’s voice was starting to rasp, but the room was so quiet Hannibal could still hear every furious word as he kept going, growing hoarser as he went.

"And somebody, probably Freddie Lounds, will come up with 'Hannibal the Cannibal’ because tabloids _love_ rhymes, and that’s all they’ll call you, you won’t be a doctor anymore, just another pathetic psychopath in your cheap, mass-produced uniform, they’ll put you in a cage, feed you godawful slop three times a day, you’ll never see the sky again, you’ll grow old in there, your teeth will fall out, one day you won’t... even be able... to remember... her... name..." Will’s voice faded on a last whisper of air, his hand dropping slackly away from Hannibal’s wrist as he lost consciousness.

A long, slow moment, until he was sure, and then Hannibal let go, and found himself jerking away, getting to his feet and straightening his cuffs where Will had disordered them. He was angry, and oddly shaken. He honestly hadn’t expected Will to be so vicious, and...

Will wasn’t psychic. He had probably meant Abigail when he said 'her’ and not long-lost Mischa, but it had struck an uncomfortable chord. He also preferred to avoid having dead bodies in his kitchen, and now he needed to clean everything Will had touched since he came in.

He took a long breath. Will’s eyes were open, glassy and still where normally they would have been darting every which way to avoid looking at him. He felt the faintest hint of regret, but he was not a man given to dwelling on lost opportunities, so he let that go. He needed to clean up.

* * *

Will’s heart made a lovely Carpaccio, with lemon and olive oil to complement but not overpower the flavor, and matched nicely with a particularly fine Chianti. It was delicious, of course, but Hannibal realized as he was eating it that he had somehow expected it to taste... different, significant, because it was Will’s. Instead, it just tasted like meat. He thought of Mischa again, unwillingly. The meal sat uneasily in his stomach.

As he was brushing his teeth that night, Hannibal thought he caught a glimpse of someone standing just outside the bathroom doorway, but when he turned to look there was no-one there. He searched the house just in case, but all the doors and windows were securely locked, and the house was empty. Since neither encephalitis nor hallucinations were contagious, he put it down to fatigue and resolutely went to bed.

* * *

Since Will had not yet been reinstated at the FBI Academy, it was almost a week before anybody noticed that he was missing. Eventually, one of his neighbors called the police, though only because Will’s dogs were roaming loose on his property. The local police got in touch with the FBI, and then Jack Crawford turned up on Hannibal’s doorstep demanding to know if he had seen Will. 

Hannibal denied it, but expressed sufficiently earnest concern that Jack, still unsure, relented and told him that Will had disappeared. He feared the worst, he said, because Will would never have left his dogs like that. Hannibal agreed that this was so, and offered to help in any capacity required. Jack glared and grumbled and left, empty-handed.

Jack Crawford came to see him several times more times in the following weeks. His expression was dark with suspicion, and Hannibal covered his amusement with worry and the occasional show of slight irritation. The FBI eventually turned up Will’s car, stripped down and burned on the outskirts of Baltimore, a long way from where Hannibal had abandoned it with the keys in the ignition. This sent Jack into a frenzy, the total lack of evidence giving him nothing to actually chase while confirming his fears. Hannibal tolerated his increased focus with grace, waiting until his little ploy with Miriam and Frederick paid off. 

Jack ran Frederick Chilton down as he was trying to leave the state and put him in the hospital, and Miriam Lass finished him off with a bullet to the head before he could do much more than protest his innocence. Certainly he didn’t manage to tell anybody what he had done with poor Will Graham, a fact which both Jack and Alana mentioned frequently and with increasing despair. 

Guilt was an infectious emotion, Hannibal observed curiously, watching them speak awkwardly around the topic at dinner one night. Inviting them both at the same time was fascinating to watch, the way they laid blame on each other and themselves. He told them that he held Chilton entirely responsible for Will’s attempt on his life, but they still tied themselves in knots trying to mourn their lost friend while not making him uncomfortable. 

He had considered feeding them some of Will, but he found in himself a curious reluctance to share him with anyone else, and certainly Jack didn’t deserve to have more of Will than he’d taken already. So Will remained intact save for his missing heart, secreted away in a freezer in Hannibal’s hidden cellar. He would have to think of something more fitting to make with the rest of him.

* * *

Hannibal was accustomed to a certain orderly rhythm to his life. Will’s presence had disrupted that in interesting ways, and in his absence the old patterns now seemed almost... tedious, by comparison. He hadn’t accepted any new patients, so Will’s regular appointment remained empty. Rather than simply going home earlier, Hannibal often found himself sitting in his chair, staring at the space where Will should have been, feeling a vague sense of loss. ( _Obsessed_ , murmured Bedelia’s voice in the back of his mind.) 

His memory was perfect, of course, and it was a simple matter to conjure up the image of Will, elbows braced on his knees, hunched over himself and staring at Hannibal pleadingly as reality wavered around him. But then Will dragged a shaking hand down his clammy face and said bitterly, "What could a thing like you love better than a mirror?" and Hannibal flinched, jaw tightening as he threw himself out of the chair and went to pack up his files. 

The knock on the door was a welcome distraction. He hesitated before opening it, the crawling sense of being watched making him turn back to reassure himself that Will’s chair was still empty, the memory of him banished back to Hannibal’s mind. A second, louder knock had him opening the door, to find Jack Crawford standing there, stern and full of purpose. 

He wanted Hannibal’s help with a woman who had been sewn inside a horse. This was entertaining for a number of reasons, and although continued contact with the FBI was risky, he felt that it would be worth it. Jack’s little team moved oddly together, orbiting around the space where the late Beverley Katz had been. They were uncertain how to deal with him at first, but having accepted that Chilton had been responsible for everything that had gone wrong with their lives, they soon settled. 

He gave himself a few fussy mannerisms and brought them food, and soon they had accepted him into their little band. The case was intriguing, though more for the young man who was being framed for the crime than the actual criminal, a man possessed of neither taste nor dignity. The situation drew some unfortunate parallels in Hannibal’s mind, and it was troubling that he felt irritation when Peter Bernardone was arrested for crimes he had clearly not committed.

There was something off-putting about his lunch that day, too. The meat was fresh, of course, but still a hint of sickly-sweet corruption hovered about it. Hannibal put a forkful into his mouth, carefully tasting it, and found it to be entirely edible, though it remained ever-so-slightly odd. He ate half of it before he gave it up as thoroughly unenjoyable. He seemed to suffer no ill effects, and so dismissed the incident. 

He had an appointment with Jack Crawford and a corpse which had apparently been mauled by an animal that should be extinct.

* * *

Hannibal slept little, and lightly. This had been an advantage in the past, but he was developing an uncomfortable habit of waking several times during the night with the unsettling feeling that there was somebody in the room, only to find it empty. Alana hardly shared his bed often enough for him to have become accustomed to her presence, and he had never experienced anything similar with previous lovers. Repeated checks of all the doors and windows showed neither signs of tampering nor any drafts which might have been causing sounds in the night. There were no trees near enough to be scraping on the house, no wildlife nesting in the roof. Besides himself, the house was as silent and empty as a tomb. Yet still he woke.

His food kept tasting odd, too. There was nothing wrong with it that he could see, he had discarded the previous lot of meat, and he checked everything before he prepared it and there was definitely no delay or possibly faulty cooler bag involved this time, so it was quite incomprehensible. 

Alana never seemed to find anything odd about his cooking, though, and on the rare occasion when Jack shared a meal with Hannibal he was always very complimentary. Hannibal concluded that it was possibly a lingering distaste caused by that previous unpleasant lunch, in which case there was nothing for it but to wait for the association to fade. In the meantime, he made himself vegetarian lunches to avoid the possibility of spoilage.

Alana was withdrawing from him, too. She was still friendly, but less inclined to invite herself to his home or initiate intimacy. He suspected that his continuing involvement with Jack Crawford made her uncomfortable, as did her own feelings regarding Will Graham. As he no longer needed her to provide him with an ally against Jack, he was content to let them drift back into something more like their previous friendship.

He also needed to consider what to do with Randall Tier. He would have liked to steer the young man towards caution, but he suspected it was too late to stop him from escalating, and in any case it was remarkable to see what had become of the unassuming young man he’d once had the opportunity to mold. He tried not to think of Will too often.

* * *

Several weeks later Jack Crawford was standing in his waiting room when he showed out his last patient for the day, a young woman who suffered from an eating disorder not quite severe enough to require hospitalization. She smiled nervously at Jack and then scuttled past, hunching into herself more as Hannibal helped her with her coat. It was a little awkward to get it on over all the layers she habitually wore to disguise her emaciated state and stay warm.

Jack frowned at her absently, but said nothing, waiting impatiently as Hannibal walked her to her car in the fading light, wished her a good evening, and returned.

He closed the door behind himself and said, "Well, Jack, what brings you to my office tonight? Would you like a drink?"

"This isn’t a social call," Jack said brusquely, holding out a large file. "We’ve got a body that I want your opinion on."

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose, but despite his inquiring look Jack gave him no further details. "Is it another of the maulings?"

"I’d rather not tell you anything until you’ve looked at it." He practically shoved the file at Hannibal, who took it curiously and led the way back into his office.

He flicked the lights on and gestured Jack towards a chair as he opened the file, spreading the photographs across his desk with an elegant flick of his fingers. _Ah._

Perhaps killing Clark Ingram had been impulsive, but the man had been offensive and there was nothing to link the corpse to either him or the Chesapeake Ripper: there were no surgical incisions of any kind, he had merely injected the man with a paralytic, placed him in a tub of water and then frozen it around him. The water had not been shallow enough to cover his face, so he had died slowly, painfully, his eye sockets iced over with a layer of his own tears.

Hannibal looked at the photographs, both of the body _in situ_ in the snowbank where he had placed it, and carved up for forensic analysis. "An unusual choice for murder. May I ask what the cause of death was?" 

"Hypothermia," Jack said flatly.

Hannibal tapped his fingers on his desk and picked up one of the photographs. "The victim looks familiar. Who is he?"

Jack sighed, and sank into a chair. "Clark Ingram. Peter Bernardone’s social worker. When we checked his house, there was a dead woman in the trunk of his car."

Hannibal felt his eyes widen involuntarily. He had taken Ingram as the man was walking home from trip to the local grocery store, and had not bothered to visit his home. "I see. Does she fit the profile for the murders we arrested Mr Bernardone for?"

"She does. MO matches, too." He grimaced. "Looks like he was telling the truth, and we arrested him on the word of the actual murderer."

Hannibal looked down at the photographs. "Ah. Have you reconsidered that drink?"

"Please," Jack said roughly. He accepted the tumbler of brandy, and took an appreciative sip. "The only real question is, who decided to correct our mistake?"

Hannibal hummed thoughtfully. "I don’t recall Mr Bernardone having any close acquaintances aside from his menagerie."

"No, none. Nobody even questioned Ingram’s assessment, either. All his previous social workers had considered him a problem case and were glad to see the back of him. We did find some evidence, though."

"Oh?" Hannibal queried, secure in the knowledge that he had left nothing, and curious as to who or what might have contaminated his work.

Jack rubbed a hand across his mouth. "We found traces of blood that weren’t the victim’s."

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose. He picked up the paperwork that accompanied the photos, looking for the information as he asked, "The killer made a mistake, then? Could you match the DNA?"

"Well, that’s just it." Jack paused, and just as Hannibal found the appropriate section of the report, he said flatly, "The blood belonged to Will Graham."

Hannibal hesitated. He looked up at Jack, who seemed quite serious, and when he looked back to the report, and there was the same impossible fact in black and white. "Do you actually believe," he said slowly, "that Will murdered this man? I thought your current avenues of investigation were based on the assumption that you were looking for his body."

"I don’t know what to believe," Jack muttered, dropping his face into his hands. "Either he’s dead, and somehow his blood got onto a crime scene that had nothing to do with either him or Chilton, or else he’s alive and now actually a murderer. I don’t understand why he’d disappear, or why he’d kill Ingram, though. None of it makes any sense!"

"Well," Hannibal murmured thoughtfully, "if Will were to embark upon a career as a murderer, you can hardly fault his choice of victim."

Jack glared at him. "Look, I don’t _want_ to believe Will did this, especially since the last time I thought Will killed somebody-" He broke off, swallowed heavily. "Look, can you come to Quantico? Look at the body. Give me your opinion. I know you’re not a profiler, but any insight you could give us would help. I need to know if you think Will Graham is capable of this, and, if he _is_ still alive and, I don’t know, taking up a career as a vigilante, what he might do next."

Hannibal glanced at his watch for a second, carefully casual, gathered the photographs and papers back into their folder as he considered. "Did you mean tonight, or is tomorrow afternoon soon enough? I have several appointments in the morning, and it is too short notice to cancel them."

"No, tomorrow’s fine," Jack replied, desperate enough to accept what he was offered without argument, even though he had clearly wanted to whisk Hannibal to Quantico immediately or else demand his attendance at the crack of dawn. "I’m on my way home now, really, or I was supposed to be. I guess I should go, it’s getting late, and Bella might worry."

Hannibal nodded, and proffered the file. "I do not know how much help I will be, but I will look at your case, and tell you whatever I can."

Jack held up a hand, refusing the file. "You can hold onto that, maybe read over the reports. I’ll see you tomorrow."

And with that he left, not waiting for Hannibal to show him out. He had the air of a man who had passed on a burden to someone else and did not wish it returned. Hannibal looked at the folder in his hand for a long moment, listening for the sound of Jack’s car driving away. Then he gathered up his things and went home.

* * *

The door at the back of the cellar was still securely locked. Hannibal opened it and stepped inside. The freezer was exactly as he’d left it, Will lying on his back, eyes closed, oddly peaceful save for the dark bruising around his throat and the neat incision in his chest. Will was dead. There was no mistaking that fact; he’d taken the man’s heart out and eaten it. And dead men did not climb out of freezers and escape through doors which were locked from the outside to somehow leave their DNA at crime scenes.

There was no way that the blood had come from Hannibal himself; everything he took to and from crime scenes was meticulously cleaned. Which meant that someone else had acquired a sample of Will’s DNA and added it to the crime scene, for some unknown reason. 

Hannibal felt his jaw slowly tensing and relaxed the muscles with some effort. It was highly unlikely to be any of Will’s colleagues: if Jack Crawford had discovered the Ripper’s identity, he would have turned up on Hannibal’s doorstep with a shotgun, and any of Jack’s subordinates would surely have shared the information with him immediately. Besides, this level of planning was much too subtle for Jack Crawford. It was, indeed, something he might have done himself, had the occasion arisen.

Hannibal couldn’t think of anyone who might go to all this trouble on Will’s behalf. Alana Bloom had been fond of him, but she was a charmingly straightforward woman, surprising for someone in their profession, and this was not her style. Hannibal felt certain that she neither suspected him nor was cunning enough to hide it if she did. 

Apart from his FBI colleagues, Alana Bloom, and Hannibal himself, Will barely spoke to anyone if he could help it. He had no family save a pack of stray dogs. Will’s 'friend’ Matthew Brown was still safely incarcerated. That left only someone with a grudge against Hannibal himself, or one of his various murderous personae, who had somehow traced him and was taking advantage of this opportunity to seek some manner of revenge rather than informing the authorities.

Hannibal frowned. Including Tobias Budge, that made four people who had discovered his activities, and that was definitely too many. Perhaps it was time he left Baltimore, and possibly the United States, altogether. But not until he’d found out who was interfering in his affairs.

* * *

Hannibal found it more difficult to sleep that night than usual, his mind restless with possibilities. When he turned over, sometime in the small hours of the morning, he could have sworn he saw a figure standing by the door, but when he flicked on the lamp there was nothing there. It added a note of crawling unease to the rapid trains of thought swimming through his mind, and he only managed to doze for a few hours before he needed to get up.

It was fortunate that his morning patients were neither complicated nor particularly observant, since his uncharacteristic tiredness did not prevent him from listening to their self-involved rambling and offering appropriate comments when they paused for breath.

While listening with half an ear, he considered the unlikely idea that someone had actually cared enough about Frederick Chilton to avenge his death. The BSHCI undoubtedly had samples of Will’s blood in storage, and if Chilton had discussed Will’s suspicions with them they would know both who he was and to be cautious when dealing with him. Certainly they would think twice about attempting to report him to the FBI after Jack Crawford and Miriam Lass between them had murdered Frederick.

He would need to stay as involved in the investigation as it was safe to do so, and be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice if required. 

At a temporary lull in the stream of inanities, he looked up, and kept his voice carefully mild. "Have you considered that beginning this affair might not drive your husband to jealousy, but rather make him feel that it is acceptable to continue with his own indiscretions?"

* * *

Ingram’s corpse looked far less artful laid out on a table under the harsh lights of the FBI’s morgue. Frostbite had left blackened patches on his skin, and the faint odor of death reminded Hannibal that he needed to get his freezer checked; his lunch had tasted odd again. He felt an uncharacteristic moment of discomfort, but Crawford and his people politely ignored it, clearly accustomed to people reacting badly to the sight of dead bodies.

They were all subdued today, with little of the passion for their work that he remembered from previous meetings. Indeed, they all watched anxiously as he examined the body, gloved fingers touching the neck lightly as he looked at the injection site. It had been noted on the report, so there was no need to pretend to look for it.

Hannibal removed the gloves, dropped them into a bin which Price indicated, and went back to the file he’d brought with him. He ignored Jack’s impatient staring, and the man clearly did not feel comfortable demanding answers from Hannibal the way he had Will, so he was left in peace as he looked again at the description of the scene. They’d tested the water and concluded, correctly, that the body had been frozen in water elsewhere, and then moved to the field by the road, where somebody walking their dog at first light had discovered it before it had time to thaw out.

"Thank god for dog walkers," Price muttered, shrugging when they looked at him. "What? They’re up early, and better than joggers, because the dogs sniff at smells so that they have to pay attention. Joggers don’t notice bodies unless they literally trip over them."

Hannibal frowned at them, cutting through Zeller’s anecdote about a dog finding a hand in some shrubbery. "Will’s blood was not actually on the corpse itself, though?"

"No. I mean, it got there when we thawed it out, but from what we can tell, it was actually frozen into the ice. Best guess, the killer froze the body in a bathtub or something, then removed it with the ice surrounding it intact, and transported it to the field and half-buried it in the snow. From the photographs on the scene, you can see here," he showed Hannibal an enlarged image of the cloudy ice over Ingram’s chest, where there were dark specks visible under the surface, "it looks like the blood got _on_ the ice, maybe if it thawed a bit during transport? And then after the body was placed it’s refrozen, because last night was a bit on the nippy side, and the blood’s then encased in the surface of the ice. It isn’t droplets, either, it looks more like flakes of dried blood that have gotten wet."

"But there were no signs of a struggle on Mr Ingram’s body?"

"Not a scratch. Somebody came up behind him, drugged him before he could do anything about it, and then froze him. So if this was Will, we have no idea how he came to be bleeding near the corpse while he was dumping it in a snowbank."

"And if it wasn’t Will, we have no idea how his blood got here."

Hannibal drummed his fingers on his thigh in a show of serious thought, looking at the body, until Jack overcame whatever respect he had for Hannibal’s authority and snapped, "Well?"

"In my entire acquaintance with Will, I only saw him kill one person, and that was under extreme duress and he was haunted by it afterwards. Will was not a psychopath, rather the opposite, in fact: he suffered from an excess of sympathy for his fellow human beings."

"Could that sympathy have driven him to kill?" Jack asked. "Ingram was a murderer, and he’d framed an innocent man for his crimes, one who was supposed to be under his care. Will might have identified with Bernardone and decided to avenge Ingram’s betrayal."

Hannibal blinked, then said slowly, "In Dante’s 'Inferno’, the traitors in the ninth circle are trapped in ice for their crimes. But that is assuming that Will is alive, and has for some reason been shadowing your investigations without revealing himself." 

"Maybe he’s pissed with us for letting Chilton frame him." Zeller muttered. "I would be." 

"I do not believe Will would have abandoned his dogs, though," Hannibal said carefully." 

There was a long pause while everybody considered this. "I agree," Jack said heavily. 

Price straightened up, like a man experiencing a revelation. "Maybe Chilton stuck him in a well like he did with Miriam Lass, and brainwashed him. Except then Chilton died, and we couldn’t find him but he managed to escape, but now he’s a paranoid wreck so he hasn’t told anybody he’s alive. Maybe he was following us around because he wanted to know if he could trust us, but then we screwed up with Bernardone so he decided to step in?"

They all stared at him. "Convoluted, but not implausible," Hannibal said slowly. "I suppose if he had actually witnessed Ingram committing his last murder, or at least moving the body, he might have felt compelled to do something without resorting to the legal system which had so comprehensively failed both him and Mr Bernardone."

"It doesn’t explain where he got the paralytic and a massive freezer, or why he decided to go classical and freeze the guy in the first place," Zeller objected.

Price shrugged. "If Chilton had another murder house set up, he might have had all kinds of shit in there. Maybe he’s got a bunch of classical literature too, and Graham was bored."

Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. "So basically, it could be Will, but we can’t prove anything either way, and even if we could we have no idea where to find him."

Price and Zeller exchanged glances, then shrugged, not quite in unison. "Yeah, pretty much," Zeller agreed unhappily.

"Perfect. Thanks for your help, Dr Lecter, sorry for the waste of your time."

Hannibal demurred politely, and went home. Perhaps this week he would pay a visit to the BSHCI, and see how Frederick’s replacement was getting on.

* * *

Alana had finally admitted to them both that she would prefer a return to their previous friendship, to which Hannibal graciously agreed, and invited her to dinner to show that there were no hurt feelings. He quite enjoyed cooking with an audience, and she was always an interested and insightful one. 

She was with him when he opened his refrigerator and found that all his meat had gone bad. He stared at the plate in utter disbelief for an embarrassingly long moment, before offering her an apology for the lack of the cuts he had put aside for their dinner. Alana said something polite about defective electrical appliances, but when Hannibal checked the other food, it was all perfectly fine, even the milk. Just the meat was off, all of it, which meant that perhaps what he had been eating the last couple of days had been past its best. 

She had stopped talking, and when he turned towards her, she was looking at him with a mixture of concern and pity that made him want to smash her skull into the wall again. He hadn’t felt this out of control in years. Fortunately he reigned in the impulse, both because it would have been a waste and because he was trying to limit the number of suspicious deaths surrounding him.

In the end they had a salad for dinner, which was nice but didn’t really match the pannacotta he had prepared for dessert, and he had to fetch a different wine, and it was all very... disconcerting, although he covered it well, managing to put Alana at ease and keeping the conversation to light, neutral topics. She did make some polite yet pointed comments about the possible effects of working with Jack Crawford upon a person’s mental health, but he chose to ignore them. He didn’t mention Ingram’s body; it was hardly any of her business, and would only cause her unnecessary distress.

* * *

Jack Crawford gave Hannibal access to all the files the FBI had seized from Chilton’s home and office as soon as he said it might help him understand Will’s potential state of mind. He, along with the rest of his team, had eagerly latched on to the idea that Will was alive but traumatized and merely needed to be found and helped back to sanity. Hannibal supposed that Miriam’s resurrection and Will’s previous descent into possibly-homicidal instability had contributed to this.

The topic led him naturally to thoughts of Abigail, still waiting, spending her days gazing out over the ocean. He had not visited her since Will’s death, nor informed her of it. Without Will, he found his interest in her waning rapidly; he had enjoyed having a co-conspirator, but she wore her fear of him like a comfortable and familiar second skin, putting him in her father’s place far more literally than he had anticipated. Still, she was an intelligent girl with great potential. 

In the end, he stopped off on his way to the BSHCI and dropped the documentation for her new identity into the post. He included a brief letter explaining that his plans had fallen through, and, as Will would not be joining them, he thought perhaps she might like to travel by herself for some time. That dealt with, he dismissed her from his immediate attention and returned to the matter at hand.

The new head of the BSHCI was a small, neat, and slightly overweight man by the name of Jacob Gold. He had shrewd eyes, but affected an effusive and genial demeanor, shaking Hannibal’s hand warmly and smiling at him. When Hannibal explained that he was working with the FBI and wanted to look through Chilton’s old files and perhaps some of the hospital’s records, he declared that he would be delighted to be of assistance, and asked that Hannibal inform him immediately if he noticed any irregularities in the old paperwork, as he was still a little concerned about some of Chilton’s policies. 

"It’s been a terrible scandal," he murmured conspiratorially, "between him _hiring_ a serial killer, and then him turning out to _be_ one, the Board was extremely embarrassed. I rather think that’s why I was offered the post, you know; I have an academic background, wouldn’t know one end of a scalpel from the other, and I certainly couldn’t go lugging corpses around."

Hannibal returned the smile, and murmured, "Now, Doctor Gold, I am certain that you are eminently qualified for the role, and appearing an unlikely candidate for the FBI’s Most Wanted list was merely the cherry on the top, as it were."

Gold chuckled. "Everybody said you were charming; I think there were sighs of relief all around when it turned out Chilton was guilty and you had been wrongly accused. Here we are; this is all the old files on hard copy, and I’ll just log you into the staff terminal. I’m assuming you know your way around a filing system?"

"Of course, thank you. If I need anything else, I shall let you know; with luck, I shall only be an hour or two."

Gold nodded and smiled and left him to it, and Hannibal settled down to search. He checked all the old staff and patient records, looking at rosters and personnel files, and it was closer to three hours than two when he finally conceded defeat. According to the records, no samples of Will Graham’s blood were still held at the hospital; Chilton himself had consigned them to the hazardous waste disposal, shortly after Will’s release.

There were also no records of Chilton showing any particular interest in any of the other staff, none of them shared any history as far as Hannibal could tell, and the closest he had had to a confidant on staff had been Matthew Brown. Going by the brief notes on Brown’s file, Chilton had regretted his choice intensely, and also been rather irritated that Brown, like so many other people in Frederick’s life, had clearly preferred Will Graham. 

He could ask to speak to Brown, of course, under the auspices of the FBI and Will’s status as a person of interest in the current case, but Brown was unlikely to be forthcoming, and might also become suspicious if Hannibal showed any interest in Chilton’s personal life; it was becoming apparent that Chilton really was as pitiful as he had always seemed. Hannibal had been to his home, after all; it was abundantly clear that he lived alone and had few visitors.

He tidied away all the files, and stopped by Gold’s office on the way out to extend his thanks, and also an invitation to dine with him at some point, which Gold happily accepted. Hannibal was careful not to set a date, as he was not certain when he would next be up to cooking for company again.

* * *

He woke in the small hours of the morning with the absolute conviction that someone was leaning over him, that it was their weight pressing down onto the bed that had roused him. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing even, and then lunged upwards without warning; the covers slid off him as he moved, but he touched nothing but icy air. The unexpected surge of adrenaline had him breathing hard, and for a moment he was certain he could smell decay, but then it was gone.

He closed his eyes and walked into his memory palace, seeking calm. He walked across the chapel floor and stood before the altar, but when he looked up the stained glass Christ had Will Graham’s bitter smile.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling until the sky outside his window grew light, and then he got up and went downstairs.

* * *

Hannibal admitted defeat and went to an organic butcher to buy absolutely ordinary fresh pork cutlets. He braised them, a little more thoroughly than he usually liked, but just to be sure, paying attention the entire time. The aroma was mouth-watering, but he also found himself vaguely queasy after the recent string of bad experiences. He didn’t bother with any marinade or sauce, just cooked the meat carefully and set it on a plate entirely plain. 

He cut off a slice, put the meat into his mouth and then had to spit it back onto the plate, gagging. Somehow, between plate and mouth the meat had gone a sickly greenish-black color, and now so had the piece remaining on his plate. He had to brush his teeth three times and gargle with mouthwash to get the rotted taste out of his mouth, and the texture lingered in his mind even when he was sure he couldn’t taste it.

Once he had cleaned his mouth to the best of his ability, he sat at the table and stared at the rotten food. It seemed impossible, as did a number of things which had occurred recently. There was no way for the meat to have gone off so rapidly, which indicated either outside influence, or some fault in his own perception. 

He stared at the plate some more, and thought of Will, and wondered if he would be able to smell illness on himself. Perhaps he should begin drawing clocks, but who could he trust to look at them? Bedelia had wisely absented herself, and he permitted her to see his occasionally foibles only because he had sufficient hold over her to prevent her ever disclosing them. And in any case, what could he have said?

_I may have begun deliberately allowing my food to spoil because eating Will Graham has caused a resurgence of trauma which I had thought behind me?_

_I may have contaminated my own crime scene to encourage the fiction that Will Graham yet lives, and has become the killer I wanted him to be?_

It seemed unlikely, and, for one who prized his control above all else, deeply abhorrent, to consider the possibility that his mind had turned against him, and yet it was becoming impossible to posit the existence of some outside force which could be so insidious as to escape his notice entirely while yet managing to derail his life so perfectly. He had never met anyone save himself who was capable of this level of subtle manipulation, which was another point in favor of the theory that he was losing his mind. 

It also occurred to him, as he sat in contemplation, that the scent of decay on the air was not only coming from the plate of rotten meat in front of him. His eyes dragged inexorably towards the hidden door to his cellar, and he was gripped with the sudden uncertain thought that perhaps he had left the freezer open and Will was rotting away.

It would only take a moment to check.

He was partway down the stairs when he heard a sound behind him and turned, missing his footing. He bounced off the wall hard, and landed on his side, his head crashing into the stone floor. The sound that had startled him continued, the slow pad of bare feet down the stairs, and Hannibal stared upwards dazedly as he recognized the silhouette of the man coming towards him. He tried to move, staggering to his feet to get away, panic crawling down his spine at the thought of being trapped, and he could smell decaying flesh as Will came closer, and then Hannibal’s clumsy limbs slipped, slamming his head back into the floor, and blackness took him.

* * *

Hannibal opened his eyes to the bland, impersonal brightness of a hospital room.

He felt groggy, and sore all over, and his mouth tasted like dry cotton, but when he tried to sit up he found that both his wrists were securely cuffed to the bed. Jack Crawford was sitting in a chair staring at him. 

"Back among the living then, Doctor Lecter?" the man gritted out, and there was incandescent, thwarted fury in every line of him. It was fascinating to watch. He so clearly wanted to leap out of the chair and beat Hannibal to death with the nearest blunt object, and yet he restrained himself because he considered himself a good man. 

"For the time being, I suppose," Hannibal rasped, throat dry. Jack did not offer him water, which was rude. Still, he obviously had something to say.

"Alana stopped by to check on you and your door was unlocked. She found you at the bottom of the cellar stairs. You know, your cellar, the one with the big freezer where you were keeping Will Graham’s body?"

Hannibal blinked, groggy and confused. The door had been locked, he was certain of it. He thought of Will’s cold, pallid fingers fishing the key from his pocket and felt a violent surge of nausea.

Jack continued to speak, but Hannibal ignored him. He retreated to the sunlit glory of his memory palace, but there were shadows where he hadn’t put them and the air smelled of decay. He opened his eyes again and Alana Bloom was sitting beside his bed. There were dark circles around her eyes but they were bright with fury and betrayal. 

"Hello, Alana," Hannibal said evenly.

Her fingers knotted together in her lap. He tried to enjoy her tormented expression, but the shadows had followed him into the waking world, and there was something moving in the heart of them, over in the corner behind the door. He kept his eyes on Alana, consumed with the certainty that looking at the shape made it more solid.

Alana's mouth worked in silence for a few moments, but at last she said, hoarsely, "I have no idea what to say to you. I thought I knew you. I felt guilty for failing Will, and you offered me comfort while you had his body in your cellar."

"Willful blindness is not to be disparaged," Hannibal said, not unkindly. "It allows us to coexist with others despite their numerous flaws and eccentricities. In your case, it kept you safe."

"Safe. From you." Her mouth twisted. "Will tried to warn me, you know. I didn’t listen. You’ve been feeding me corpses for years."

"Yes," Hannibal agreed. He watched her struggle again, maintain her composure by the thinnest of margins. "You have a question you want to ask me."

Her mouth twisted. "I have a lot of questions. But yes, one in particular. Will you give me an honest answer?"

"If you will give me one first." Hannibal cocked his head to one side. "Quid pro quo." 

She blinked. "Alright. What is it?"

"Do you remember when all the meat in my refrigerator went bad?" Hannibal asked. The shadows in the corner were moving, he could see them on the edge of his peripheral vision.

"I remember," Alana said cautiously.

Hannibal turned his attention to her. "Was it actually bad?"

She blinked. "In what sense?"

Hannibal’s mouth twitched. "I don’t believe meat is possessed of any ethical qualities. I was convinced that the meat was rotten. Was that the case?"

She was intrigued now, though she covered it well. "Do you have reason to doubt your own perception?"

"I am not attempting to lay the groundwork for some improbable medical defense, I assure you. I am merely... seeking confirmation of something."

"I see." She shrugged. "I’m afraid I can’t help you. I wasn’t close enough to see the contents of your fridge, and when you said the meat was rotten I simply took your word for it. What were you hoping to confirm?"

"I suppose it doesn’t really matter, the outcome is the same either way." Specter or hallucination, Will had succeeded in bringing Hannibal down. "Ask your question." 

She swallowed. "You took out Will’s heart. Did you... feed it to us? To me?"

Hannibal smiled at her. "Not even a bite. I hope you’ll excuse me for wanting to keep him all to myself."

She paled, and left without another word. Hannibal stared at the closed door for as long as he could stand, but human eyes naturally track movement, and his gaze kept sliding to the shadowy corner. He was sure that he could see a face there, under a mop of dark hair, turned in his direction, and it was becoming clearer. He wasn’t sure whether seeing it clearly would be better or worse, but his greatest weakness had always been curiosity. 

* * *

Sitting in his horrible, mass-produced jumpsuit, Hannibal stirred his protein-rich mash with a plastic spoon. Dr Gold had decided to exercise his power by only giving Hannibal 'vegetarian' meals, which was good, because it saved him having to explain his total inability to stomach anything even smelling of meat. Hannibal had made sure to look vaguely disgusted when the food was delivered, thus allowing him to feel he had won. 

Hannibal considered dealing with Gold as a replacement for sessions with his patients: he paid enough attention that they felt they were getting their money's worth, and he coasted through the interactions and took note of potentially-useful weaknesses. In this case, Gold’s fear of him expressed through his need to control the situation and his anger at Hannibal’s refusal to speak with him.

That didn't change the tasteless slop Hannibal now had to eat, though. "Well, are you happy now?"

Will, crouched in the corner of the cell in what was probably, lamentably, his best suit, turned towards him. The undertaker might have brushed his hair and dressed him, but his eyes were still clouded white and he made no sound. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"No," Hannibal said at last. "I suppose not."

He put the spoonful of slop in his mouth and swallowed.


End file.
